Alone in Your Electric Chair
by BluAlbino
Summary: God, having watched over Dean for the boy's entire life, was well aware of his thick skull. Dean's, that is. God had a plan. Dean/Castiel Twoshot
1. Chapter 1

The first time Dean Winchester saw god, He was a homeless man beside a busy road. God, that is, not Dean. And God didn't exactly look like God, what with being a hobo and all.

God sat on the roadside, on an upturned milk crate, holding a cardboard sign level with the Impala's window.

Out of the corner of Dean's eye, the sign read "Dean Winchester is saved."

When he faced it, though, the words written in black sharpie were: "We are all saved."

Dean shook his head, to clear it, and kept driving.

___

Even though he enjoyed hunting, there were a few things too disgusting or messed up for even Dean to deal with. One was slime monsters.

Well, it wasn't technically a slime monster, it had a name, but Dean couldn't actually pronounce it without concentrating and making his mouth hurt a little. Voody-something.

Anyway, the Voody-thing was inhabiting a small fishing pond, which wasn't really a big deal, except that it got pissed when people tried to fish in the damn pond and ended up dragging the poor bastards in by their fishing poles.

Needless to say, it wasn't very happy when Dean lit a handful of firecrackers and threw them into the pond, scattering algae and drops of water everywhere.

"Was that necessary?" Sam asked, readying his crossbow.

" 'Course it was, Sammy," Dean said, grinning. The Voody-whatsit jumped out of the water as Sam rolled his eyes, and it hung suspended over the surface of the pond.

"Ew," Dean said, and Sam made a noise of assent, his face screwed into a grimace. The Voody-something looked like a naked old man, twisted with age and half covered in scales, coated in a thin mucus-like layer of slime. With it came the reek of dead fish. Or, y'know, live fish, depending on which smelled worse.

Dean half expected it to call him whippersnapper and tell him to get away from it's pond. Instead it started screeching at him in angry Russian.

He looked at Sam. Sam sighed and fired the crossbow, hitting the Voody in the stomach and sending it sprawling on the opposite edge of the pond. Dean rushed over to it.

According to Sam, the only way to kill the thing was to dry it out.

Dean pulled the lighter out of his back pocket and lined it up with the can of bug spray.

Voody spat something in Russian at him. It sounded like gibberish.

Dean flicked the lighter on and depressed the nozzle of the spray can. A jet of flame came out, turning Voody into extra crispy fish sticks in less than ten seconds flat.

"I think it's dry, Dean," Sam said. Dean stopped his makeshift flamethrower, even though the Voody-thing was already lit, and was well on it's way to becoming a decent blaze. It smelled like deep fried fish.

"I'm hungry," Dean announced, making Sam roll his eyes again.

And then the Voody-whatsit exploded, showering Sam and Dean in slime.

There was a piece of bluish-brownish scale stuck to Sam's cheek.

___

The second time Dean Winchester saw God, She was a child in a park. Dean was talking to Castiel, about how the angel was more than just a weapon. More than just a hammer.

A little girl, in a pink jacket, sitting on a pretend truck with a wooden floor and big blue wheels. Unlike the rest of the children, She was just sitting there, not moving or laughing or joking. Just sitting.

Staring at them.

Dean saw Her out of the corner of his eye.

___

They finally got to eat after spending nearly three hours washing the slime off. The damn stuff dried fast, and itched like crazy while doing so. Dean wasn't sure about Sam, but he was pretty sure the fish smell was deeply engrained in his own nose, that he would never get rid of it and everything he smelled for the rest of his life would reek like the Voody-thing. It was a deeply disturbing thought.

Dean asked the waitress to bring him steak, the anti-fish, and Sam ordered a BLT.

"Dean," Sam said softly, glaring over his sandwich at a point behind Dean's head. Dean turned his head and glanced back, and behind him, standing near the door and looking mildly out of place, was Castiel. The angel was glancing curiously around the diner, like he had never seen the inside of one before. Which he probably hadn't.

Dean turned back, gave Sam a look, and growled disapprovingly into his forkful of steak. Sam gave him a glance that very obviously said _you wanna sneak out? _Dean shook his head. Even if they made it out without Cas noticing, the angel would just show up somewhere else later.

Dean felt shivers crawl up the back of his neck and knew Castiel was looking at him. He pointedly ignored the angel. Sam wrinkled his forehead, staring at Cas.

The shivers went away, after a very faint gust of wind.

"He's gone," Sam said, sounding like he didn't quite believe it. Dean shrugged. "How did you do that, Dean?"

Dean glared at his brother.

"Didn't do nothin' Sam," He said around a mouthful of steak. "Eat your sandwich."

Sam had the sense not to argue. Then.

___

The third time Dean Winchester saw God, He was pissed. God that is, not Dean.

___

"Dean, I don't think you can avoid an angel." Sam said, having rediscovered his end of the argument in the car on the way back to the motel.

"I'm not avoiding him." Dean didn't even have to look to know that Sam had his arms crossed and his _pull the other one _face on.

"Yeah, sure Dean."

Too tired to retort, Dean flopped over on his bed. The mattress was thin, and smelled funny, but not in a fishy way, so that might've been a sign of the bits of Voody-whatsit coming out of his nose. The steak must've been off, because Dean could feel it repeating on him.

Altogether, he just wanted to sleep.

And he did.

___

Dean woke up on a white sand beach, with bluer water than he thought was possible. The hell? He looked up and down the shore, his eyes fixing on a point of orange light in the distance. He might as well check it out.

It first occurred to Dean that it might be a dream after he walked about a half mile through the sand without his legs hurting. Also, he wasn't covered in sand, despite the fact that he was _laying_ in it and sand is the stickiest substance known to man. So, yeah, not real.

The orange light was getting closer, and it was now obviously a tall bonfire.

With a man sitting next to it.

Dean came closer and closer, and the hunched figure stoking the fire looked more and more familiar.

When Dean was close enough to sit by the fire, he knew who it was.

"Dad," Dean greeted, unsure wither to be happy or sad to see John.

"Yeah," John said. "But not the one you're thinking of."

"What?" John didn't answer, choosing instead to simply gaze at his son, a very un-Johnlike smile on his lips. "You're not saying what I think you're saying."

"I am," The man who looked like John said, grinning.

It made perfect sense, in dream logic. Dean was talking to God, who just so happened to look like his dad. Sam would have a psychobabble field day with that one.

"What do you want?" Dean asked, trying and failing to be blunt in the face of his father. God laughed.

"That's what I like about you Dean, you don't tolerate bullshit." God chuckled. It was odd for Dean to see his father like this. So obviously happy, without any recently-killed demons in the picture.

Well that was depressing.

"Or, I should say, you don't tolerate _other people's _bullshit." Oh, God was starting to look a bit more like John now, pulling Dean's father's ex-marine _you better listen or I will fuck you up _face. Dean sat up a fraction straighter, hearing his back crack.

Awfully realistic for a dream.

"Dean," God said, sighing. "I can't allow you to torment your brother like this."

"I'm tormenting Sam?" Dean asked.

"Not your younger brother. One who is _much_ older."

"What?" Dean asked. God chuckled and glanced at the fire, which was starting to burn out. The orange glow flickered in John's eyes, a sarcastic grin in the corner of his mouth, making him look more demonic than godly.

"You'll see."

___

Dean's face was pressed into a pillow that smelled like sour milk now that his nose was clear. His dream came back to him in fuzzy bits and pieces, starting with the image of John--err, God--glancing into the dying fire with a little smile on his face.

Dean stretched, and looked to Sam's bed. His little brother was huddled up under the covers, meaning he hadn't gotten up at six am for once.

Or not. Dean's cell phone clock read 4:23 am.

"Fuck," Dean whispered, too awake to fall back asleep.

___

Sam did wake at six in the goddamn morning, which Dean thought shouldn't even _be_ a time. His theory was that all hours between midnight and eight should just be dark o'clock or, possibly, naptime.

Dean grunted at Sam over his coffee mug. Winchester for _good morning_.

"Dean?" Sam asked muzzily, rubbing at his eyes and heading for the coffee pot. "Why're you up?"

Dean grunted again, with more of a downwards inflection. _Dunno. Stop talking._

The last part of his message must've been lost somewhere between his mouth and Sam's ears.

"That's weird." Sam said, sitting across from Dean with his own mug of steaming coffee. "So, what're we doing today?" Dean rubbed his face with a thumb, trying to kickstart his brain.

"Uh…thing in Montana." He said, trying to remind Sam of the details without having to actually remember them himself.

"Golem," Sam said, more to himself than Dean. The older Winchester nodded absently. There was a comfortable silence as they took a simultaneous drink of coffee. The caffeine briefly sparked a reaction in Dean's sluggish brain.

"Sam, if someone said you had an older brother, like, other than me, who would they be talking about?" Dean asked.

The question had just jumped out of his mouth while his brain was looking the other way. He wanted to take it back, but that would be even weirder than saying it in the first place, so he let it hang in the air.

Sam raised an eyebrow.

"I'd assume they were talking about religion," Sam said. Dean didn't have to ask for clarification. "According to the Bible, we're all the children of God."

"Oh," Dean said.

"What's this about, Dean?"

"Nothin'." Stupid dream.

___

God, having watched over Dean for the boy's entire life, was well aware of his think head. Dean's head, that is.

God had a plan.

___

They were driving along a country back road, the only things in sight a line of interconnected telephone poles and scrub grass.

In other words, Dean's favorite place to be in the world.

The breeze blowing in through the window smelled like dirt and sun, waking him up better than coffee ever could. The radio, static free for once, played Led Zeppelin. Sam dozed against the window.

Dean was very aware of what felt like a big, stupid grin on his face, but it probably looked more like a smirk. Montana was hours away, not counting rest stops.

It was turning out to be a good day.

Something behind the car broke, sending a loud _SNAP_ reverberating through the air. Sam started, woke, and turned to look out the back window.

"Dean…" He said, eyes wide. Dean looked at his rearview mirror and, holy shit, one of the telephone poles had somehow cracked down the middle, and the wires were dragging the rest down with it.

"Dean!" Sam yelled. The beam in front of them was collapsing, and Dean swerved to the side to get out of the way. The beam landed just shy of the front bumper.

"Holy shit," Dean said. Sam nodded, staring out the window at the telephone pole that had nearly crushed them. "You okay, Sammy?"

"Yeah," Sam said.

Dean felt his hand searching for anything that could be used as a weapon. Empty takeout wrappers, while nasty, probably weren't going to do much against whatever just did that. Sam, embarrassingly well prepared for this sort of thing, pulled a handgun out of the glove compartment.

They stepped out simultaneously, crouched and wary. Sam pointed the gun to the front of the car and Dean scanned the area in the back. All clear.

Like that meant anything.

The ground seemed to hum under Dean's boots, a static charge singing through the dirt.

"Sam…"

"I feel it."

They took a few tentative steps forward, keeping low.

More noises sounded suddenly, a cross between gunfire and popping bones, like the telephone poles were flexing their joints.

Which, in a way, was _exactly_ what the beams were doing. They picked themselves up, with no visible means of doing so, and reconnected to their bases. It reminded Dean of a racecar set he'd seen in a commercial. Where the course dropped obstacles in front of the shiny plastic racecars in an attempt to weed out the slow ones.

Thoughts of a toy should not make the bottom drop out of his stomach like that.

"The fuck?" Sam whispered, lowering the gun a fraction in his confusion.

"I dunno, but I say we haul ass before it happens again." Sam agreed with this plan, and they climbed back into the car, keeping a lookout for bits of falling sky.

Dean sat on something that crinkled. He jumped to his feet, nerves still on edge from their near miss. Laying in the center of his seat was a plain white envelope.

"Keeps getting' weirder and weirder," Dean muttered, having the oddest feeling that he was having the most realistic dream of his life.

The front of the envelope said _to, Dean Winchester, rural route 15, just outside of Wyoming_ in a strong, familiar handwriting.

His dad's.

"What is that?" Sam asked. Dean could tell he was expecting it to explode, or come to life in his hand, or give him a paper cut. Dean was pretty sure that wasn't the intention.

He opened the envelope slowly, unfolding the back flap. There was a stamp on the front, made of a shiny gold paper, that read _Eden_.

Dean read the note aloud to Sam.

_Do I have your attention?_

He crumpled it into a little ball and threw it by the side of the road.

___

The next diner on the way was half an hour later, but they chose not to stop, eyeing the power lines wearily. The one after that was better, with few cables or surrounding buildings.

"You're getting messages from God." Sam repeated for what had to be the hundredth time since Dean told him.

"Yeah," Dean replied.

"Messages. From _God."_

"Yes." Sam opened his mouth to say it again, possibly with an extra word or inflection, but Dean cut him off.

"Sam, if you say it again, I will throw you out of this car." Wisely, Sam didn't say it again.

They pulled into the diner's parking lot, Dean making sure not to leave his precious car near any trees or overhanging ledges, and went in.

The first think they ordered was coffee, strongest in the house. Sam's inability to form a sentence impaired conversation until the waitress came back.

"So, since when?" Sam asked awkwardly.

"Have I been talking to the big guy?" Dean said gruffly, making Sam less uncomfortable and more irritated. "Since last night, I guess."

"Dean, this is huge," Sam started, pulling his hands away from the mug to gesture at Dean. "What's he saying? Are you a prophet or something?"

"Dunno, Sam. Didn't ask." Sam exhales through his nose, like an angry dog.

"He must have said something."

"Yeah, something about mistreating my brother," Dean said.

"You're mistreating me?" Sam asked, brow furrowed.

"Apparently not," Dean quipped. "He said it was my older brother."

"So, that could mean basically anyone older than you." Dean nodded. Sam put on his thinking face, and brought the coffee mug to his lips for a thinking sip.

His eyes widened, and he stared into the cup. Sam's mouth dropped open in a little 'o' of surprise, and he just held it there for a second, staring into the cheap coffee like it held the secrets of the universe.

Sam placed the cup on the table, gently, like he was afraid of disturbing something. He placed his hand over the top before Dean could look inside.

"Dean," Sam squeaked. Dean raised an eyebrow. The younger Winchester lifted his hand the slightest bit to allow Dean to peer inside.

Okay, that wasn't normal. Or physically possible. Assuming he was seeing that right.

It was probably--no, definitely--just a shadow on the liquid. Because there was no way it was parted. Liquid did not divide itself around thin air, not even the goddamn Red Sea.

Sam's eyes met Dean's. Okay, maybe it was real.


	2. Chapter 2

When they got to their motel, they immediately set about God-proofing it.

Or, they would have, if they had the slightest idea of just how to do that.

But they did know how to angel proof it, thanks to Bobby. Which came in very handy, because their feathered friends started showing up by the dozen.

First there was a blonde woman sitting across the street, staring in their window.

Then a teenage boy in black clothes sat on a stoop.

Then there were three men, of varying age, standing in front of a pawnshop near the motel.

The street was crowded with angels, Dean could feel all their energy in the air, crackling through his shoulder blades.

The two he was expecting never turned up though. Not once did Dean, or Sam for that matter, see a trenchcoat or a shiny bald head sticking out of the crowd.

"Why are they even here?" Dean growled.

"I think it's because they can sense Him. God. They must want to be near Him," Sam guessed, looking over the multitude of heavenly warriors.

Now that Dean looked, they all had kind of a hungry expression on their faces. A pinched, needy want. Very similar to the face Sam made when their Dad was gone for too long.

They wanted their father.

Dean, for one crystallized second, understood completely what the angels were feeling. The abandonment, the need.

Then he realized what he was doing, having an _inner _chick flick moment, and promptly squished that thought and put it in the pile with all the other brain bits he didn't feel like dealing with.

"So, how do we get them to leave?" Dean asked.

"I think we have to get God to leave," Sam replied. Dean looked at him.

"Sam, I'm not much of a Jesus freak myself, but I don't think there's an exorcism for God." Sam glared at his brother.

"Or," Sam started, "you could just do what He wants and He'll go away." There was that too.

"I don't know what He wants."

"Then ask Him." Dean just then noticed the light stress he and Sam had been putting on God's pronoun, and it pissed him off.

"And how do you suggest I do that, Sam?" Dean asked, crossing his arms over his chest. He threw his head back and announced into thin air; "hey! God! Stop stalking me!"

Dean, half expecting to be hit by lightning, was almost relieved when nothing happened.

"Dean…" Sam said, rolling his eyes, "maybe you should go to sleep."

That could work too.

___

Having his little brother tuck him into bed, or at least try to, because Dean was _not _going to have that, was awkward.

"Dude, I think I know how to sleep," Dean said, trying to push Sam away from his bed.

"Dean," Sam whined, forehead wrinkled. "Will you at least try to let me help?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Yeah, sure. You can start by going away." Sam clenched his jaw and walked away. Huh, that had actually worked.

Or not. Dean smelled peppermint as Sam walked back with a steaming mug of _something_.

Dean raised an eyebrow.

"It's tea," Sam said, half defensive over his girly drink. "It helped me fall asleep a few times." Dean could tell that by 'a few times," Sam meant 'when you were in Hell.'

That pretty much sealed the deal, and Dean took the mug with a long suffering sigh. He took a swig of it. The tea was just shy of boiling and sweet mint, with just a hint of bitterness that clung to the back of his throat. Not bad, though Sam didn't have to know that.

"So?" Sam asked.

"I drank it," Dean said dryly.

"And?"

"I can't sleep with you staring at me." Sam snorted and walked to the window, peering out at the angels. Dean figured that Sam would probably keep watch until he thought Dean was sleeping. Not that Dean would be sleeping, but it wouldn't exactly hurt him to curl up and shut his eyes for a while. They could figure out a new plan when he 'woke up.'

Dean settled on his side under the covers. The bed was a bit softer than he remembered. He shut his eyes and yawned, playing it up for Sam. His head sunk into the pillow.

Dean didn't actually realize that he was falling asleep until the last possible second.

That tea stuff must've worked after all.

___

It wasn't a beach this time. Dean woke up stretched out on the back seat of the Impala, one foot hanging out the open door. He sat up sluggishly, the whole world a little blurrier than the last time he dreamed, and hit his head on the roof of the car.

"Ow." At least it woke him up a bit more. He climbed out, rubbing his forehead.

The car was parked by the side of a country road. Not the same one he had been driving down earlier, but pretty damn similar.

"I see you're finally awake."

Leaning against the hood of the car, with a smirk and a beer, was God.

"No thanks to you," Dean said, trying to ward off an impending headache. The world was still oddly slow, like the air was _thicker _there, or something. God handed him a beer. Dean was pretty sure that hadn't been there a second ago, but he wouldn't be surprised if one of the perks of being the Almighty was the ability to make alcohol from thin air.

Dean accepted it and took a grateful swig.

"What do you want?" Dean asked, relaxing against the car next to God. It was strange to be talking to John this casually, but something about that place made it seem okay, somehow. Like, for one moment, they could talk as equals.

"I want my children to be happy," God replied.

"You're gonna have to be more specific." God chuckled.

"Y'know, the last time you talked to your brother-" God started, the grin disappearing from his face.

"The one that isn't Sam?" Dean asked skeptically. The corner of God's mouth turned up in a tiny smile.

"The one that isn't Sam," He agreed. "The last time you two talked, you were both confused. Lost." He paused for a drink. "But your brother, the old one, knew that you needed to lean on him, so he let you."

Dean didn't have the slightest clue as to what God was talking about.

"He thinks you're fragile, Dean," God continued. "He won't approach you if you won't let him."

"Who?" Dean asked, really tired of the pronoun game. God grinned, what Dean was starting to think of as his _mysterious ways _smile.

"You'll need that," God said, pointing at Dean's beer bottle. He checked it, and yeah, it was just a plain brown glass bottle, but when he looked up, God was gone.

Dean clenched his jaw, and tightened his grip on the bottle so tight he thought he was going to break it. He opened his mouth to speak, but decided against it.

Telling God to go fuck himself was probably a Hell-able offense.

___

Dean came to slower than last time, pulling himself out of a murky sleep. His eyes just didn't seem to want to open.

"Dean?" Sam asked, sounding shocked.

"Who else looks this good?" Dean quipped. Man, his head hurt. And his tongue felt fuzzy.

"What happened?" Sam asked, abandoning his position by the window to sit on Dean's bed.

"I have to find whoever I'm mistreating and get him to talk about his feelings or some shit," Dean said, rubbing his forehead.

"Did he say who it was?"

"No," Dean said, tilting his head upwards. "Very helpful, by the way!" He announced to the ceiling. Sam glared at him. Dean stuck one foot out of bed and tried to stand, noticing two things.

One, his legs didn't seem to support his weight, and he crashed to the floor.

Two, there was a brown glass beer bottle in his bed, under the covers, at about the level where his hand was when he was sleeping.

"Dean!" Sam said, running to his side. He tried to help his brother up, but Dean shook him off. "You shouldn't be trying to walk!"

"I'm fine, Sammy," Dean said, using the side of the bed to haul himself to his feet. Wait.

"What do you mean, I shouldn't be trying to walk?" Sam gulped, and dropped his eyes to stare at the floor. Dean remembered the bitter aftertaste in his tea.

"Sam," Dean barked, climbing onto the bed, "did you drug me?"

The bottle rolled off the bed and onto the floor with a clunk.

Sam looked away.

"Sam." Dean stood, still shaky but too pissed off to fall over. He opened his mouth to say more, but was distracted by a low _whir_ around the level of his ankles. Like a fan blade spinning on the floor.

Dean and Sam both looked down, to see God's beer bottle spinning lazily in a circle, slowly gaining speed. Dean took a cautious step back.

The brown glass bottle spun, faster faster faster, until it was more of a blur than a bottle, making a scraping noise against the floor. Then, as suddenly as it started, it stopped, the neck of the bottle pointing out the window.

"Uh…" Sam said. Dean felt inclined to agree. He knelt down, reaching for the bottle slowly. He really hoped he wasn't about to get shocked or something.

He was, sort of. The second his fingers closed around the brown glass, a fizzy sort of energy traveled it's way up his arm, dispelling all the after effects of whatever Sam had slipped him. Dean lurched forward with the sudden rush.

"Dean," Sam said, unconsciously stepping forward to catch him. Dean caught himself with one hand and practically _jumped _the rest of the way up. His arm felt tingly, like it was asleep.

"Awesome," Dean said, grinning at God's magic bottle.

"Dude…" Sam said, confused. Dean moved the grin over to his little brother. "You okay?"

"I'm great, Sammy," Sam put on his, seldom used, _confused and somewhat disturbed _face.

"Because… of beer?" Sam asked, eyebrows nearly hidden under his bangs.

"Magic beer!" Dean said, pointing at Sam with his left hand. The hand not holding his magic bottle.

If Sam wasn't careful, his face would freeze like that.

"So," Sam said, obviously uncomfortable with the recent events, "what do we do?"

Dean held his hand flat and loosened his grip on the bottle until it laid flat on his palm. Slowly the neck turned to point out the window. A compass returning to true north.

"We go that way," Dean said.

"What about the angels?" Sam asked, seeming to gain a bit of confidence in the new direction things were going.

"Have a little faith, Sammy."

___

"I still think this is a bad idea," Sam grumbled, as Dean climbed into the car. It would be safer to leave him behind, away from the attention of angels. Dean didn't reply, starting the car. The bottle was deep in his jacket pocket, giving off a low hum that he could feel through the leather.

Dean took off in the direction the bottle had showed him, out of the rearview mirror, he saw most, if not all, of the angels disappear. They were following him.

Dean took every turn on instinct. The bottle was giving him directions. It drove him out of town, and onto an old country road.

Oh. That's where the dream came from.

He stopped in the middle of the road and got out of the car. For the thousandth time that day, he acted on complete faith, a feeling so strange to him that he couldn't quite name it, and placed the bottle on it's side in the middle of the road.

Now what?

"Winchester," said a flat voice from behind him. Dean turned, and there was one of the angels that had been sitting outside of his motel room. The gothic teenager. "What are you doing with that?" he growled.

Dean licked his lips. He had no idea, but something told him that angel-boy wouldn't quite understand that. More angels appeared, swirling in from thin air with the hiss of wings. They formed a rough circle around him. Around the bottle.

Hysterical laughter hit the back of his throat. Heaven's army was ambushing him to steal an empty beer bottle.

As Dean laughed, the bottle started to spin. He stopped. All eyes were on the brown glass, as it spun faster and faster, this time making a whistling noise that hurt Dean's ears and drilled into his brain. He slammed his hands over his ears and gritted his teeth.

The bottle was spinning so fast that it was starting to pull itself off the ground, standing almost straight. A dull white glow came from inside of it.

Just as it stood by itself, something told Dean not to look. He dropped to his knees and closed his eyes, bowing his head to protect it.

The bottle exploded.

There was a flash of light that he felt just as much as saw through his eyelids. After it was gone, he opened his eyes and looked around, the whole world purplish, like the spot he saw after a camera flash.

The angels were gone.

Mostly.

"Dean?" Castiel asked, and where the hell did he come from?

"Cas? What're you doing here?"

"I thought…" Castiel said, looking around. "I thought I felt… Uriel." His voice was still impassive, but his tone was softer, scared and hopeful. Lost.

Oh.

His brother was Cas.

"Where is tall dark and ugly?" Dean asked, lately he never saw Castiel without his partner.

"He's dead."

Fuck. Dean was officially asshole of the year.

"Dude, what happened?" Dean asked, getting to his feet.

"He fell…" Castiel's voice wavered slightly, Dean almost didn't catch it, "in battle."

"Look, man. I'm sorry." Dean said, and was surprised to find that he meant it. He hadn't exactly _liked_ the guy, but he was Cas' friend.

Cas, who had been fixing his gaze somewhere around Dean's left earlobe, looked directly into his eyes. Holy crap, the angel must've been staring directly into Dean's soul or something, because he kind of couldn't move. Or talk. Or breathe right.

"You are," Cas said, like it surprised him too. Hey, Dean wasn't a complete jerk.

Cas took another step forward, directly into Dean's personal bubble, never breaking eye contact.

Dean had to be imagining that weird electricity in the air.

Castiel looked down, to Dean's boots, letting him breathe. That was his _sudden and possibly devastating announcement _face.

"Dean," Cas said, looking back up to his eyes. "The last time we spoke…"

"What?" Dean asked.

"I should have told you something." Castiel bit the inside of his lip, apparently steeling himself for something. Dean's heart skipped a beat.

"God chose the right man for this."

Dean gulped. Castiel reached forward and placed a hand on his shoulder. A hand that, if Dean didn't know that Cas wasn't human, would've seemed to shake.

"Is that what you were told?" And Dean should really just shut up.

"That is what I believe."

He stood there for a second, staring into the angel's eyes and feeling mildly uncomfortable, and then blurted.

"I really am sorry about Uriel." Cas closed his eyes.

"As am I." He said.

Castiel leaned his head forward slightly, and rested it on Dean's shoulder.

He didn't even notice how close they were until that very second.

God had said that Cas needed to lean on him, but Dean hadn't really expected it literally. But, seeing as his arms were still at his sides, it wasn't technically a hug, so not girly in the slightest. That was his story and he planned on sticking to it.

That's when Dean saw God for the fifth time.

He was standing by the side of the road, shoulders relaxed and hands in his pockets.

"Meatheads," He said affectionately. Cas didn't appear to hear him.

How was he a meathead? Unless there was something that he was still missing, that they were both missing.

Castiel turned his head, facing him.

"Dean," the angel said softly.

Oh.

Dean was a gigantic meathead.

And then Cas kissed him.


End file.
